


Knots

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Oral Sex, Romance, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Kirkwall, Hawke and Isabela discover that there's more than enough room for one more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knots

**Author's Note:**

> clothtunics asked: Pardon my obvious trolling for meta, but: *chinhands* Do you have headcanony thoughts for pirate girlfriends? (Isabela/Hawke/Merrill) :D, and what on earth could I do but attempt to deliver?

“Here, Merrill, it's not hard at all. Look.”

Hawke pulls Merrill's fingers away from the knot—it falls apart at once—and carefully winds the ropes together again, pausing every now and then to make sure Merrill still follows. Her brow is scrunched up, bottom lip drawn between her teeth, eyes narrowed. Hawke tries not to laugh. She knows Merrill is  _trying_ , and when she's trying, she likes to be taken seriously. (Hawke can't really fault her for that.)

“Okay, now you.” Hawke steps back and Merrill goes again. This time, the knot comes together perfectly. She lets out an audible sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Hawke.” Merrill tugs at the rope, making sure that it holds firm. “The ropes just get so snarled, sometimes, like they're misbehaving on purpose.”

“I think you're doing fine,” Hawke says, smiling. She takes a deep whiff of the sea air. “Really. 'Bela and I couldn't sail this thing all on our own.”

“Speak for yourself.” Isabela drops to the deck from the shroud, grinning. “But it's good to have you along anyway, Kitten.”

When Hawke looks back to Merrill, she's turned pink. Her fingers knot together, and the smile on her lips melts away. “T-thank you,” she stammers. “I think I'll just, uhm. I'll go see what Fenris is up to. Maybe he needs help.”

She scurries off, and Hawke stares after her, bemused.

Isabela leans sideways against the mast. One eyebrow arches up. “Someone's got a crush,” she announces.

“Beg pardon?” Hawke asks, nonplussed.

“Merrill, you goose. She was all chatty and giggly with you, and then I swooped in and she turned into a bundle of nerves.” She  _tsks_. “Like she thinks I'd  _mind_.”

“No,” Hawke scoffs. “Merrill's just...Merrill.” She waves her hands to illustrate this point.

Isabela rolls her eyes. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

Hawke rubs the back of her neck, awkward now. “That was years ago. And a misunderstanding. You know I flirt with  _everyone_. I don't always mean it.”

“Would it be so bad if you did?”

Before Hawke can make anything of  _that_ , Isabela kisses her on the cheek—then pats her ass, just to make sure the gesture isn't too sweet—and saunters off toward the wheel, where Fenris is carefully keeping them on course and Merrill is nowhere to be seen.

Hawke frowns and puts it out of her mind. She's gotten much better at that since leaving Kirkwall.

* * *

By the next week, Hawke's already forgotten about that odd scene on the deck. They've passed through Bastion and picked up some crew members, which has taken a load off all their shoulders. There's still not time to lay around and do  _nothing_ , exactly, but Hawke's never led a relaxed life.

She has, however, led a hungry life, so when her watch is over, she wanders down to the mess to find something to eat. Voices drift into the corridor, the sound of cards sliding between fingers and to the table.

“You're getting better at this.” Isabela's voice, approving. Hawke leans against the doorjamb, smiling at the sound.

“I have to, don't I?” Merrill, half-pleased, half-distraught. “It's been  _years_.”

“Don't sound so sad.”

“I must be a terrible embarrassment to you. As a friend, I mean. I can't even play  _cards_ properly.”

“Kitten, trust me, I have friends a thousand times more embarrassing than you. You've met Hawke, haven't you?”

Hawke decides this is her cue to join the game; she ducks beneath the doorway and steps into the mess. “I heard that,” she says, trying to keep her voice stern.

“And do you have something to add in your defense, or are you about to make a terrible joke?” Isabela asks, not even looking up at her, the  _gall_.

“You love my terrible jokes,” Hawke protests. “Remember the—”

“No.”

“You don't even—”

“I do, Hawke. I know exactly which joke you're thinking of.”

Laughing, Hawke leans down to kiss her, and she feels Isabela's scowl melt away at the touch. For a moment, when Hawke pulls away, Isabela's eyes are dopey and unfocused, her smile crooked at the corner—and Hawke sees Merrill leaning on her hand, looking particularly wistful.

“Everything okay, Merrill?” Hawke asks, sliding onto the bench beside Isabela.

“Oh—fine. Just tired.” Merrill pushes back from the table. “I think I'll turn in.”

Hawke is halfway through her meal when she notices Isabela staring at her.

“What?” she asks, the syllable muffled around a mouthful of food. “Is there something on my face?”

“You know, I've always thought you were relatively perceptive, but I'm starting to think I don't know you at all.”

Hawke swallows. “Are you on about this again?”

Isabela sighs. “I'm just saying. Be  _open_ to it.”

“I  _am_  open to it! We did the whole thing with Zevran—”

“That's not the same.” She frowns, worrying at her lip with her teeth. “I  _like_  Merrill.”

Hawke chuckles. “What, you don't like Zevran?  _I_ liked Zevran.”

“Not like  _that_. Like…” She waves her hands, exasperated.

“Like?” Hawke prompts.

“You're going to make me say it.” She seems resigned to this.

“It's pretty much the only thing I'm good for.”

Isabela sighs again, lower this time. “I  _care_  about Merrill.”

“Was that so hard?” Hawke teases, grinning.

Isabela swats her arm. “Be serious. You're never serious!”

“Okay, okay, I'm serious.” Hawke makes an effort to bring her grin under control. “I care about Merrill, too.”

“Like you care about me?”

“I don't know.” Hawke puts her fork down, a little reluctantly. “It's different, isn't it? For every person you care about. It never feels quite the same.”

“Start in your pants,” Isabela suggests. “That's usually a good indicator.”

Hawke snorts, turning to face Isabela. “No, it isn't. Let's say I see what you're saying, though. What do you want to  _do_ about it?”

Isabela frowns; Hawke can tell she’s chewing at the inside of her lip, anxious. “I don't know. I want to put her at ease, that's all. She's seemed a little sad since we left Kirkwall. I'm worried about what's going on in that pretty little head of hers.”

“Why don't we just  _talk_ to her, then.” Hawke reaches out and tugs Isabela closer until she's tucked nicely against her side. Isabela rests her cheek against Hawke's shoulder. “Maybe have a nice cuddle? I think we'd have to ease her into the idea of anything else.”

Isabela nods. “Alright. Are you nearly done eating, though, because I don't want a  _nice cuddle_  tonight.”

Snickering, Hawke abandons what's left of her meal.

* * *

They call Merrill to the captain's cabin a few days later—which, in retrospect, is not their best idea ever. Merrill comes in to find Isabela in her chair and Hawke yanking off her boots and promptly goes red.

“I swear I didn't mean anything by it,” she blurts.

Hawke and Isabela exchange a look. “What are you talking about?” Hawke asks, tugging off her socks.

Merrill's eyes flit from Hawke to Isabela and back again. “Aren't I...in trouble? I thought…”

Hawke shakes her head. “Kitten,” Isabela says, a little exasperated, “we only wanted to  _talk_ to you.”

“Oh.” Merrill bites her lip. “About what?”

“Come over here, will you?” Hawke says, patting the edge of the bed beside her. “And shut the door.”

By the time Merrill sits, Hawke can see her hands trembling. Isabela gets up from her chair and joins them on the bed, legs folded beneath her; she reaches out to untangle Merrill's shaking fingers.

“Listen,” Isabela says, keeping hold of Merrill's hand, “you've been a very dear friend to us.”

She tips her head expectantly at Hawke, who clears her throat. “We wondered if you might like to be...more,” she says.

Merrill's mouth pops open in surprise. “Oh,” she says, as though this has never once occurred to her.

Isabela chuckles. “Don't tell me you haven't thought about it.”

Her cheeks are pink again, but it's a much nicer pink. “I hadn't quite worked out how it would...work. So much to keep track of.”

Isabela catches Hawke's eye. There's a smirk hiding at the corner of her mouth, so pleased and eager. “We can show you,” Hawke offers. “If you’re comfortable with it.”

Merrill looks up at her, and for a split second, Hawke thinks she'll say no and flee, but then the wrinkle in her brow eases and she whispers, “I think I'd like that.”

Hawke touches her cheek, cups the line of her jaw, and leans down to kiss her. She feels the hitch of Merrill's breath, and it tugs at something in her chest, in her gut, something nice and warm and comfortable. Ah,  _balls_. Isabela is always right about this kind of thing.

When she pulls back, Merrill looks a little dazed—in a pleasant way, to be sure, but certainly startled. “Oh,” she says again—breathes it, really, her lips curling up with surprise.

“My turn,” Isabela chimes. “C'mere, Kitten.”

Her hand cradles the back of Merrill's head while they kiss, fingers lost amidst the dark braids, and Hawke reaches to just below there, the nape of Merrill's neck, and unties her scarf, letting it flutter to the floor. She brushes a kiss to the exposed skin, and Merrill's back arches, just a little, a hum of pleasure caught in her throat.

“Too many clothes,” Isabela murmurs, her lips leaving a trail of kisses across Merrill's vallaslin, prompting a giggle. “Take care of that, would you, Hawke?”

Hawke pulls off her own tunic before sliding down to kneel on the floor. Merrill watches as she settles between her legs, fingers reaching up to hook around her leggings.

“Is this okay?” Hawke asks, and Merrill nods, wide-eyed, distracted again by Isabela nibbling on the line of her ear.

Hawke takes her time, kissing the skin she exposes when she rolls the leggings down. Merrill's legs are long and lithe, slim, elegant, and Hawke flicks her tongue out to taste her skin; when she's finally bare, Hawke starts from her ankles and works her way up, a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses up her calf, the inside of her knee, the vulnerable flesh of her inner thigh.

Merrill's squirming now, her breath ragged; when Hawke glances up from her attentions, her tunic is jerked sideways, exposing the line of her shoulder. Isabela's hand works beneath Merrill's shirt, freeing her breastband. Hawke can see the pert swell of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, through the fabric, and a jerk of arousal wakes in her gut; she presses her thighs together, a rough sigh against Merrill's skin at the brief relief.

But Isabela is still so  _clothed_ , boots and all, so Hawke leans out of the cradle of Merrill's legs to begin slipping the buckles free, fingers deft in her task. She runs the pads of her fingers down Isabela's thigh, her calf, when she pulls the first boot free, and Isabela lets out a soft little moan directly into Merrill's mouth, which she just happens to be kissing again.

When the boots are off, Hawke rejoins them on the bed—beside Isabela, this time, her hands circling around to untie the sash at her hip, tossing it to the floor with Merrills scarf. She works at the laces on her jerkin next, kissing the crook of her shoulder; when Isabela's head cants sideways, she bites instead, enjoying Isabela's pleased groan at the graze of her teeth. With the laces all undone, she pulls the neck of the shirt wide and spills Isabela's breasts into her waiting hands.

They're all a little out of breath now, panting with anticipation, but Isabela sets them back on course—even with Hawke's fingers rolling her nipples between them, her head lolled back on Hawke's shoulder, eyes hooded. “I know exactly where I want you,” she tells Merrill, who's watching this display as though she can't possibly look away. “Though Hawke needs to get her pants off first.”

Hawke laughs, offers a parting kiss to Isabela's neck, and stands to get rid of the offending clothing, but Merrill scrambles to her feet, too, closing the distance between them. “Let me,” she says, all breathless and eager, and her fingers don't fumble at all with the knot on the laces; she tugs them down over Hawke's hips and off her feet with care. There, kneeling on the floor, she brushes the softest of kisses to the long, ugly scar on Hawke's stomach, hand wrapped firm around her hip.

And  _balls_ , but Hawke is wet, her head foggy with lust, and surely Merrill can smell it through her smalls—which are being pulled down her legs right this instant, baring her to Merrill's rapt gaze.

There's a rustle from the bed, and when Hawke looks over, Isabela's clothes are gone; she leans back on one elbow, watching them, her fingers working slow circles between her thighs. She cocks her head to the side, toward the headboard, and  _smirks_ , and Hawke knows exactly what she wants to do.

She twists free of her breastband and halts Merrill's progress with a hand to her shoulder. “Come on,” she says, encouraging Merrill to her feet; she pulls the tunic off, takes her hand, and leads her to the bed.

Hawke gets settled first, stacking pillows against the headboard and sinking down until she's at a comfortable angle. Then she beckons to Merrill, who's found her hesitation again and climbs after her uncertainly.

“Lean back against Hawke, sweet thing,” Isabela says. She's perched on her knees now, avidly watching them while Merrill settles in between Hawke's legs, back to her chest. “My, aren't you a  _feast_.”

Hawke can  _feel_ the heat of Merrill's skin, flushing with pleasure and maybe a touch of embarrassment, but then Isabela sprawls out on her belly between Merrill's legs and swipes her tongue right where Hawke knows Merrill must want her, so badly, and Merrill lets out a shocked moan, her head falling back to Hawke's shoulder.

Hawke has perfect access to Merrill's body like this—and a good view, too, of the pink flash of Isabela's tongue in her cunt, the gold wink of her stud now and then. It's hard to focus with the weight of Merrill's body undulating slowly between her legs, just enough friction to keep her arousal burning but not enough contact to take her any closer to release. She tries, though, following the pink marks Isabela's teeth and lips left on Merrill's neck and shoulder, sucking them deeper, and Merrill certainly doesn't complain; her hands caress the subtle curves of Merrill's body, gently kneading the swell of her breasts, stroking over her trim stomach—

Merrill's head turns toward hers, her eyes glassy with  _want_ , and Hawke kisses her deep, tongue parting the seam of her lips, mouth swallowing up every little delicious noise she offers up, every moan higher until her hips jerk into Isabela's face and her thin cry is whimpered against Hawke's lips.

Isabela works her down from it; Hawke sees the even pink stroke of her tongue, slow and soft, until Merrill is slumped in Hawke's arms, all tension gone from her limbs. Hawke, by contrast, is positively quivering now, unable to think of anything but her own aching cunt.

“What now?” Merrill asks—a little weakly, but still curious, questioning, forging forward.

Isabela laughs into her thigh. “We'd best take care of Hawke.”

Merrill tips her head back, a shy smile uncurling on her lips. “I'd like to,” she says, soft and earnest. “If you wouldn't mind.”

So Hawke nods, and they all move, until she's listing back against Isabela and Merrill is pressing soft kisses to her throbbing center,  _teasing_ her, fluttering touches that make her whimper—

And all in all, they're all very sated indeed when they finally crawl beneath the covers and snuff out the lamp, a tangled pile of trembling, sweaty limbs.

“That was nice,” Merrill breathes into the dark, and Hawke and Isabela laugh. “Can we...do it again? Later, I mean. When I'm not so tired.”

Isabela kisses the blade of her shoulder; Hawke kisses her nose. “Whenever you like,” Hawke tells her, and Merrill gives her a sleepy, happy smile.

“You thought you were in  _trouble_ ,” Isabela chortles. “You goose.”

“Oh, I am,” Merrill protests, closing her eyes. “It's a good kind of trouble, though. I just didn't realize.”

It only takes a few minutes for her to fall asleep; her breath deepens and evens out, and she's gone, leaving Isabela to cock an eyebrow over her shoulder at Hawke.

“ _That_  went very well,” she murmurs.

Hawke reaches over Merrill's body for whatever bit of Isabela she can reach; she finds her hand and squeezes. “Sometimes you have good ideas,” she returns in an undertone. “ _Sometimes_ , mind. Mine are usually better.”

Isabela squeezes her hand back. “Liar.”


End file.
